


Losing A Bet May Lead To Winning A Kiss

by AwariaSuit



Category: Chernobyl (TV 2019)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 04:50:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20040208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwariaSuit/pseuds/AwariaSuit
Summary: He lost the bet. He had to shave off his mustache. And he did exactly that.





	Losing A Bet May Lead To Winning A Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr.

— Well now you _really_ look like a little boy. 

Toptunov waves him off, annoyed. He looks around the shelf for the one item he needs, before he can escape.

— So I lost a bet, alright? You don't have to rub it in.

— Rub it in? — Yuvchenko laughs then, and turns to Brazhnik. — _Rub it in_, he says.

But Toptunov doesn't wait to hear what amusing opinion Brazhnik might have about his unexpectedly clean shaven face. He jams his hat on and strides out of the locker room.

It doesn't matter, anyhow, what they think. He lost the bet. He had to shave off his mustache. And he did exactly that.

At the end of the corridor, he pushes the heavy door open. The control room is empty, save for one man, who is now looking up at him from the console. Toptunov swallows, and wills his legs to move him beyond the doorway. He spots a storm brewing, behind those familiar thick-rimmed glasses. 

They lost the bet. _They_.

Sasha's mustache is gone also. He turns away from Toptunov, brusquely and deliberately, just as he sits down next to him at his own station. Taunts in the locker room mean nothing next to Sasha's quiet seething rage. 

— You, uh. — He starts and pauses, aiming for a conversational tone. — You look different.

At that, Akimov turns toward him, with daggers in his eyes.

— You lost me the fucking bet, Leonid!

Oh, he's definitely seething. Toptunov raises his hands in defense.

— I am _sorry_.

When Sasha doesn't immediately turn back to the console in front of him, he thinks he might have a chance. An opportunity to placate him.

— Really, I am. But you _knew_ I wasn't much of a card player.

Akimov says nothing. But still, he doesn't turn away. Good.

— Besides, I'm sure you'll be back to your... walrus self tomorrow, or by the end of the week, tops. Me, on the other hand, — Toptunov gestures toward his own face — it took me _years_ to grow mine. If you must know.

— Is that what I look like to you? A walrus?

Sasha's tone is even, and he's speaking to him. All good signs.

— We-ell...

Toptunov looks down at the floor between their chairs, and then all around him, before he gets to nerve to look him in the eyes. — You do have kind of a-a walrus thing going, yeah. Except now, you're more of a... baby seal.

Akimov doesn't reply, but Toptunov notes that the corners of his mouth lift, and twitch, just barely. _Now that you don't have your mustache to hide behind, I can see more of how you really feel._

They sit in silence for a few moments. Suddenly, Akimov inches his chair toward him.

— You look different, too.

— I do? — Toptunov replies (quite stupidly, if he were to ask himself).

— Yeah. 

Sasha reaches over to Leonid's face, and pulls off his hat, roughing his hair a bit. He tries to take in Toptunov's new appearance in full.

Toptunov blinks, then ever so slowly reaches over — _what am I doing?_ — to do the same. So now he has Sasha's hat in his hand, and Sasha holds his. 

Except, he's had to lean forward to grab it from Sasha's head and veered over a little too far. He's now over-tilted and a little too close, and yet gravity keeps him from leaning back. He's somehow firmly in Akimov's orbit.

His eyes trail up and down Sasha's new face, and it _is_ new. Sasha, not Sasha. For a few moments it's just them, staring at each other, breathing, while the machinery of the control room breathes around them, in its own language.

Where _is_ everyone, anyway?

Then his eyes fall to Sasha's mouth, and does it ever look new and _delectable_. He follows the recently unveiled curves of his lips. Up and down, and up and down they go. Before he can spend too much time admiring the shape, an idea seizes him. And it truly is a mad one.

Toptunov leans in even further, then brings up his hands, one to each side of Sasha's face, the hat still in his right. He presses his own lips to Sasha's. Gently at first, but when the world doesn't end, with more confidence. Or what he thinks is confidence, at least. 

That the door could open at any moment only adds to the thrill.

When they finally break apart, their lips are pinker and fuller. They watch themselves as if they were looking in a mirror, breathing, cheeks visibly flushed in the hollow light of the halogen lamps. Just them, and their new faces.

Akimov gives him a hint of a smile. — I bet you'd like to do this again.

— Again and again — Toptunov agrees. — What are the odds, do you think?

  


  



End file.
